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Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive | Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Immortal, though no more; though fallen,
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance
What mark vo fair as the breast of a foe?

forego?

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase:

But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before

The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er.

Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves,

And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves,

Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore.

I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy;

Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear.

I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall

soothe ;

Let her bring from her chamber her manytoned lyre,

And sing us a song on the fall of her sire.

Remember the moment when Previsa fell, The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell;

The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared.

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear;
He neither must know who would serve the
Vizier :

Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw

A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw.

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-hair'dGiaours view his horse

tail with dread; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks!

Selictar! unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: Tambourgi! thy 'larum gives promise of

war.

Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore,

Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!

great!

Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children

forth,

And long accustom❜d bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopyla's sepulchral straitOh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the tomb?

Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which

now

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand,

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd.

In all, save form alone,how changed! and who
That marks the fire still sparkling in each
eye,
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd

anew

With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty!
And many dream withal the hour is nigh
That gives them back their fathers' heritage:
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage,
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's
mournful page.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,

But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same:

Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years

of shame.

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest;

And the Serai's impenetrable tower Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.

Yet mark their mirth—ere lenten days begin, | How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,
That penance which their holy rites prepare And long to change the robe of revel for
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,
the shroud!
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer;
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,
In motley robe to dance at masking ball,
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.

And whose more rife with merriment than thine,

Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign?

Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,

All felt the common joy they now must feign, Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song,

As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bospho-
rus along.

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore,
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her

tone,

And timely echoed back the measured oar,
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan:
The Queen of tides on high consenting
shone,

And when a transient breeze swept o'er
the wave,
from her heavenly

'Twas, as if darting

throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave.

Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
Danced on the shore the daughters of the
land,

Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home,
While many a languid eye and thrilling
hand
Exchanged the look few bosoms may
withstand,
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still:
Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy
band,
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's
years of ill!

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret
pain,
Even through the closest searment half
betray'd?

To such the gentle murmurs of the main
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain;
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd
Is source of wayward thought and stern
disdain :

This must he feel,the true-borg n ofGreece, If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast:

Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace,
The bondman's peace, who sighs for all he
lost,

Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword:
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe
thee most;

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime
record

Of hero-sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde!

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Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; And scarce regret the region of his birth, Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred is fair.

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of Wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon:

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord— Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame

TheBattle-field, wherePersia's victim horde First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,

As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word; Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conquer

or's career,

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below;

side,

Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste: But spare its relics-let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced! Not for such purpose were these altars placed: Revere the remnants nations once revered: So may our country's name be undisgraced, So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd,

By every honest joy of love and life en

dear'd!

For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,

Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading baysI may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise;

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,

And none are left to please when none are. left to love.

Thou too artigone, thou loved and lovely one!

Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me;

Death in the front, Destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth | Who did for me what none beside have done,

here? What sacred tropby marks the hallow'd ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;

Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a
shore;

Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful
lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;

He that is lonely hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,!

Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,

Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see

Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam!

Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed!

ButTime shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thou could'st have of mine, stern Death! thou hast ;

The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud.

tears,

False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, | The furrows of long thought, and dried-up
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak;
Still o'er the features, which perforce they
cheer,

To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique, Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled

sneer.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?

To view each loved one blotted from life's page,

And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd: Roll on,vain days! full reckless may ye flow, Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd,

And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd.

CANTO III.

"Afin que cette application vous forçat de penser à autre chose; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps."

Lettre au Roi de Prusse à d'Alembert,
Sept. 7, 1776.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,

And then we parted,-not as now we part, But with a hope.—

Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar!

Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,

And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where-e'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find

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Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, where not a flower appears.

Since my young days of passion-joy,or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,

And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling;
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness-so it fling
Forgetfulness around me-
-it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrate-
ful theme.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds,not years,piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife

With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mix'd with thy spirit,blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.

Yet must I think less wildly:-I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,

My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!

Yet am I changed; though still enough the

same

In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.

Something too much of this:—but now 'tis past,

And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel,

Wrung with the wounds, which kill not 'but ne'er heal;

Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him | Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, exIn soul and aspect as in age: years steal tends, Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,

Entering with every step he took, through many a scene.

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd Again in fancied safety with his kind, › And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find

Fit speculation! such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,

Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold

The star which rises o'er her steep,nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex roll'd On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.

But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held

Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd

In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd,

He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; Proud though in desolation; which could find

A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home;

He had the passion and the power to roam The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam; Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake

For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.

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Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be ;How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls 4

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